A Witch by the Sea
by nowforruin
Summary: Summer of 1692. With Port Royal leveled and Salem caught in witch hysteria, a pirate meets a healer that's more than meets the eye. CaptainSwan.


She knew him for what he was the moment she saw him, ambling along the dusty, rutted road that led up from Town. It didn't matter that he'd clad himself in the proper attire of the settlement, nary a stitch out of place – the rich tan of his skin gave him away in an instant. No proper gentleman of Salem would reveal himself to the sun with enough regularity to attain such a rich, caramel coloring to his skin. There was also his manner of walking, as though he expected the dirt to shift below his feet with each step he took.

What he was doing in Salem village, so far from Town and the harbor, was anyone's guess.

Emma kept her head down as she hurried back to her cottage, dust kicking up over her boots and skirts. Dangerous times were afoot, and for a woman like her, widowed but still young and pretty, being seen alone was an invitation for trouble. The gaol already held a half-dozen or more women who would swing before the month was out, and Emma was not keen on joining them.

Especially since if anyone was a witch, it was her.

Not the sort of witch being whispered about with fearful glances at the neighbours – Emma could no sooner induce a fit in the herbs drying from her rafters than those poor young girls that the whole mess had started with. And while they were certainly afflicted with _something_ , she sincerely doubted they had been cursed.

After all, she'd never met another of her kind, and if there were such a creature in Salem, she would know. And if Emma herself were powerful enough to do such a thing, well, she'd be more interested in bringing mothers through childbirth alive and whole than causing a bunch of silly teenagers to foam at the mouth.

It was a relief to reach her cottage and close the door behind herself, the hot summer sun left outside. She set down her basket, now empty after delivering the various remedies and medicines she supplied to the village. Not everyone could afford to be attended by the doctor in Town – Emma couldn't – so they came to her instead.

Up until the arrests began in February, she'd never feared her profession might bring her demise down upon her. But as the rumors swirled and old vendettas were fanned by the claims of _witch!_ slithering through the settlements, a knowledge of herbs could soon be seen as the devil's work.

But where else could she go? A brutal winter had left many unable to pay for her services, and she wasn't a wealthy woman to start. The natives picked off anyone who went too far beyond the village, and a woman like her, with shiny blonde hair and pale, pale skin, was known to be a temptation beyond measure.

So she kept her head down, treated those she could, and stayed out of village affairs as much as she was able. Outside the walls of her home, she presented the picture of purity: head bowed, hair covered, and buttons done up to her chin.

But within the sanctuary of her own home, Emma removed her bonnet at once, sighing with relief as her sweat-dampened hair was exposed to the relative coolness of the cottage. Built of stone, it did a fair job keeping the worst of the heat out, though the days would only grow warmer as summer pressed on. The cottage was one of the nicest and most valuable in the village – at least her deceased husband had left her that much.

Neal had been a mistake through and through. She was so young when she met him, and she had been so easily taken in by his charming smiles and pretty words. He'd ruined her, and if it hadn't been for the pregnancy and his father's pronouncement they would wed, Emma might have suffered far worse things than a miserable marriage. She was ashamed to realize how _relieved_ she had been when Neal's horse had thrown him and snapped his neck, leaving her the cottage and a life of her own.

Some days she thought the freedom payment for the loss of her child, the misery of the fever that nearly took her life along with the babe's.

Some days she thought the soles of feet burned with the flames of hell, already calling for her.

Humming to herself, she set about building a small fire to heat water for tea. One of the farmer's wives had presented her with a tiny tin in payment, and it was rare Emma could afford such a fine quality of tea. She wondered how the farmer and his wife had even been able to afford it, but Salem had become a place where one did not ask too many questions.

After hanging the kettle to boil, Emma finally let herself sit for a few moments, her feet aching as she slid them from her boots. The villagers were spread far and wide, and many hadn't the time or ability to visit her for their ailments, so she went to them. Being fit and able, it was as it should be, but the boots were well worn and in dire need of replacing.

If only her patients paid in coin. It could solve so many of her problems.

The beginning of a headache tugging at her brow, Emma raised one hand to the mass of hair atop her head, searching for the pins holding it all in place and making a pile of them beside her on the roughly hewn bench. One by one, the coiled braids dropped down her back, until they too were unraveled by the slow slide of her fingers.

And so it was that Emma Swan had nearly fallen asleep before the fire, barefoot and hair loose, when a sudden knock stirred her from her doze. A curse she had no business uttering slipped out under her breath as she glanced frantically around the small room, as though a few bits of chipped and scarred furniture would somehow make her presentable again in an acceptable amount of time to open the door.

The knock came again, and the voice that accompanied it was far less polite.

"I know you're there, lass!" Her door rattled, the wood creaking in protest. "It's a matter of some urgency, if you please."

Emma's breath caught in her throat, panic choking her. The accent was off, speaking of distant lands she'd never seen – never would see – but it didn't completely set her at ease. There were plenty of folk in Town she'd never spoken to who could show up at her door to cart her off to the gaol.

Hurrying to tie her hair into at least a passable braid, Emma snatched her slippers up from their shelf and shoved her feet into them, shuffling across the bare floor after kicking her boots under the bench.

The last person she expected to find on her doorstep was the merchant-who-wasn't-a-merchant, his hair too long and his gaze too direct. "Good day, love. I hear you're the lass to see if a man requires patching up." He held his hand out with a grimace, blood showing through the dirty cloth he'd wrapped it in.

Emma hesitated. Whoever he was, he wasn't from the village. Strangers were rare, and strangers _now_ could lead her to a short drop and sudden stop with all due haste.

But the man was bleeding on her doorstep.

She ushered him in, gesturing to the bench in front of the fire. "Sit down and let me have a look." With a frown, she crossed the small room that made up the main living space of the cottage, opening the chest against the far wall to pull out clean linen strips, a needle, and thread. Anything bleeding that heavily was likely to want stitches.

Emma grabbed the bottle of rum for good measure, too. It was the cheapest she could find, and it tasted no better than ash, but it was serviceable. Depending on the severity of his injury, the man would likely drink it anyway if he knew what was good for him.

Especially a pirate miles from port parading about as a merchant.

"What brings you to the village?" she asked, careful to keep her eyes politely lowered. Inquisitive women were far from what was expected of her station, and even if she suspected the man wasn't dangerous to her person, she couldn't forget herself.

"You, darling." He shifted as she took his hand, the only outward sign of any discomfort as she began to unwrap the soiled linen. When she raised a brow in question, he laughed, a low, deep rumble that filled the room. "A good healer is talked about in every port. You are the widow Swan, are you not?"

She nodded reluctantly, but her frown only deepened as she gave her answer. "There are doctors closer to the harbor."

"Bloody imbeciles with leeches and all that nonsense about humours." He rolled his eyes in a most undignified manner, his breath catching as Emma unraveled the last layer, pulling the blood-soaked fabric free of the wound with care. "I've lost a bit of blood already, you can see. I'd rather prefer to keep what I have left."

She frowned, tilting his hand closer to the light coming through the nearby window. The heat of the day rolled off him, sweat and the tangy brine of the ocean clinging to him as assuredly as his breeches. It wasn't proper for him to be in her home, alone as they were. When she finally met his gaze, she was certain he would bring her nothing but trouble, for his eyes were the purest blue she'd ever see.

But they were also glazed, and as she touched his skin, she frowned. The cut was deep, but fever was always the bigger worry, and by the heat of his skin, he might be in for a poor time of it. Then again, he'd walked several miles through the punishing heat.

If he _did_ have a fever, would he make it back to his ship? Would she have to care for a bloody pirate in her own home? She might as well strip naked and announce herself as a witch before the magistrate.

"You'll be wanting this." Emma held out the rum bottle, shoving it into his good hand. "Take a healthy swallow, but don't drink it all. I need to clean out your cut."

He grimaced, sniffing at the bottle. "Is this poison or rum?"

"A little of each, I suspect." She nodded, her smile tight. "Drink up."

He took a generous sip, choking and sputtering as he handed it back. "I've had a number of foul brews in my time, but that…" He grimaced, shaking his head as if to clear it. "That is a vile drink."

"Does the job." She took his hand, dumping the liquor over the cut in one swift motion before he could protest. His hoarse shout was only quieted by the loss of his breath, air hissing through his teeth. To his credit, he didn't jerk away, despite the paling of his cheeks. "What brings you to Salem?" she asked as she dabbed carefully at the gash. Talking distracted most of her patients – why should he be any different?

He breathed out slowly, but his voice was steady as he answered. "The West Indies are not as hospitable as they once were."

"Oh?"

"Have you not heard? Just beyond two fortnights past, a great disaster struck Port Royal. The very ocean rose from the depths to lay waste to the island." He laughed, but it wasn't the warm humor she'd heard when he'd first sat before her hearth. "I suspect the lot of us might have deserved it."

"For your…profession?"

"Aye," he said, his soft voice carrying a hint of surprise at her question. That he didn't bother denying it impressed her, and she offered a smile in return. No, the man was not all he appeared to be, but then again, neither was she.

"You might want a bit more of that," she said in warning, nodding to the bottle on the bench between them. "I'm going to need to stitch it."

"I suspected as much." He grinned despite the foulness of the drink, managing to down it the second time with little more than a wince. Gesturing toward his hand with the bottle, he nodded. "Best be getting on with it. I'll keep this, if you've no objection."

"Go ahead." The few magical qualities she possessed leant themselves to healing, and so she turned her attention to his hand. A nasty injury, to be sure, the wound jagged and deep. Had he earned it in the village, or had he truly come all the way to the village on the rumor of a healer?

She worked in silence, the sloshing of the rum inside the bottle joining the crackling of the fire as the shadows lengthened. He was good and drunk by the time she finished, the rum nearly gone. At least it had gone to a seemingly good cause.

With any luck, and a bit of magic, he'd be fine. The wooziness in her head told her she'd expanded far more energy that she intended, focused on his hand as she'd been. The neat stitches would hold the wound shut, and whatever other mysterious gift she'd been given would hopefully do the rest.

His uninjured hand reached out as she rose to toss the bloodied rag he'd arrived with into the fire, his fingers tangling in her hair. She hadn't realized her braid had come undone, long blonde locks spilling over her shoulder in a tumble of curls. The dampness of the air only made it worse.

"You don't belong here, lass," he said softly, smiling up at her through hazy eyes. "You'd make a hell of a pirate. You're quite brave, and I hazard to guess long for more than this village. I could give you more, love. So much more."

She shook her head, but she didn't immediately remove his hand, either. Something about the way he looked at her, naked longing plain on his face, was a comfort. Instinctively, she knew he didn't want her the way so many others did – he wasn't looking to cage her in marriage.

He wanted to set her free.

And for a moment, she wanted it too. The sea air on her face, her hair loose, the freedom to travel the world and find a land where the people were less narrow-minded, and death didn't dog her heels simply for being who she was – where a young woman who'd made one bad choice didn't pay for it with the rest of her days.

But she couldn't leave. The village midwife – the gnarled old woman who had brought Emma alive through her fever – had passed away a year ago, and if Emma left, there would be no one left to help the villagers.

"I can't," she finally whispered, turning away from him before he could touch more than her hair. The man was sin come to life; the devil himself sat before her hearth. Her imagination took flight, soaring over the dusty roads and open fields, all the way to the harbor where his ship would be waiting. He was magnificent in her small cottage, dusty, filled with drink, wounded – what would he be like in his own domain, the sea rolling under his feet?

Unstoppable, she thought.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Emma frowned, glancing at the still sunny sky. On the horizon, dark clouds loomed, a flash of lightning jumping from cloud to cloud. "A storm is coming," she said, turning back to her patient. She never had asked for his name, but in light of his profession, she thought it better not to know.

"Aye, the air smelled of it when I made the walk here." It might have been her imagination, but she thought she detected a hint of disappointment. However, if it was the case, he was polite enough not to press the issue.

Emma was grateful for his manners – if he _had_ pressed her, she didn't know she would have the strength to say no again. So she hesitated, but in the end, Emma couldn't turn even a pirate out into a thunderstorm. "I can make you up a pallet if you'd like to wait it out. The roads are not always safe to travel unattended once the sun has set, even for a pir…for someone such as yourself."

"A pirate, love. It's what I am." He gestured to his clothes, swaying on the bench. "Even dressed up as a poncey merchant, can't quite hide it, can I?" He laugh, a bitter, self-deprecating noise that made her want to return to his side and stay there.

"No," she said before she could think better of it, not certain if she was talking to herself or answering his question as her eyes lingered far longer than was proper. As a healer, she was familiar with the human body, but to stare at a man was still unseemly – even if he did possess a rather fine figure. "I'll just go fetch that pallet."

"Swan, wait." His hand shot out as she passed, his skin warm on hers. "You needn't fear me. I'd be much obliged for the hospitality this evening, but rest assured, I still believe in good form." His expression earnest, he waited for her to nod before he released her wrist, his smile turning seductive. "Though should you _choose_ to come to my bed…"

"Absolutely not."

He shrugged, but his expression remained open and calm. Most men flew into a fit of rage at her rejection of their advances, but he didn't seem slighted in the least.

Unwilling to think another moment on him and his offers that were far too tempting, lest she take him up on one or both, Emma set about gathering the bedding for his pallet. Once she had him settled by the fire, she brewed an herbal tea and forced him to drink it, ignoring his sputtering and protests over its taste.

"You drank the rum without issue, and it was far worse."

"The rum had other benefits, love."

"So does this. Drink up."

And once he was asleep, the rain having long since faded to a gentle patter against the roof, Emma climbed the stairs to her small lofted sleeping space, listening to the hiss and pop of the fire accompanying his soft snores. It was strange to have another person in the house again after so many years alone, and the temptation of his offer tugged at her once again.

But she'd been given a gift, and it was her duty to use that gift where she could – a pirate ship hardly needed or deserved the services of a healer. So despite the twinge of regret in the morning at the sight of the empty pallet, the sheets neatly folded on top of it, Emma sternly told herself to forget the pirate with the gentle smile and teasing ocean eyes, forget the man whose scent was a promise and a dream.

-x-

They came for her in the middle of the night in early September, the scent of wood smoke heavy on the air marking the arrival of fall in the colonies.

Emma was roused by the sound of the furious knock at the door, hastily pulling a night robe over her shift and lighting a candle with trembling hands. Rarely did a knock in the deep of night mean anything good, and with Gallows Hill claiming new victims more and more often, she lived in terror of what that knock meant.

But the last time, it had been the village blacksmith come to fetch her to assist with his wife's labor, and Emma told herself that it was likely a patient in need of aid as she swallowed past her dry throat and hurried to the door.

The magistrate waited with several other men, their faces grim in the torchlight. "The widow Swan?"

Emma nodded, tugging her robe tighter as dread threatened to overwhelm her. The magistrate had no business in the village beyond rounding up witches – if he were ailing, he would see the doctor in Town. There was only one reason they could have come, and as the rattle of manacles sounded over the whisper of the corn stalks, Emma fought to stay standing.

She was going to be hanged on Gallows Hill. That was how the conversation would conclude in the end – an undignified death amidst a crowd of townfolk who'd lost their minds. It was the only explanation for the increasing insanity that had taken up residence in Salem – insanity or greed.

It was a curious thing how wealthy the accusers became as the lands of the condemned were snatched up by opportunists. There _were_ still good people left in the world – Emma had seen them, treated them – but there were just as many who did what they did purely for their own motivations. Neal's father came to mind – he hadn't forced his son to marry her to save _her_ reputation. No, that hadn't mattered a whit – but a bastard grandchild might have soured his business, and he couldn't have that.

But who would have accused Emma? Neal's father was dead, killed in a duel not long after his son had met his maker. Her small cottage was of no consequence. Her healing talents had not made her wealthy, not even the gold coin left by the injured pirate enough to make her truly comfortable. She was too terrified to spend it anyway, what with the current state of Town.

"You'll need to come with us, madam." More men waited beyond her door, as though one woman warranted such a fuss. "You've been accused."

"By whom?"

The magistrate had the decency to look uncomfortable. "Jefferson."

And that was when she knew it was pointless to argue. Jefferson was a wealthy merchant who had noticed her on one of the few necessary trips she made to Town each year, and she had made the mistake of smiling politely and engaging in conversation. He had taken it as a welcome sign of his advances, proposed marriage, and attempted to drag her off to have his way with her.

He'd been livid when she had refused, but Emma hadn't stopped there – she'd slapped him in the middle of the street when he'd tried to press the issue. She hadn't lived through Neal and the loss of her child just to be dragged into an alley and once again forced into a marriage that would only bring her pain.

That had been in the spring, nearly six months earlier, but she had long suspected the majority of the accused were the victims of petty grudges and opportunity. Why would she be any different? Emma almost laughed at the absurdity of it – here she was, concerned about her method of healing, about sheltering a pirate for an evening, and yet she was brought low by none of those things, but by a wounded ego and a bitter man.

"Might I dress?" she asked quietly, struggling to keep her rage in check. No matter how she hated it, her very slim chance of survival rested on playing the role of meek and obedient. Perhaps it would be best to confess and take her chances. It had worked for the slave woman so far – she had yet to meet her maker on Gallows Hill, while those who protested their innocence had gone to the noose.

The men muttered amongst themselves for a moment, plainly uncertain of what to do in the face of her quiet acceptance. They had quite obviously expected a hysteric woman prepared to fight them, but the magistrate recovered with a nod. "Quickly, mind you."

Emma made quick work of dressing in her warmest, sturdiest clothes and boots. The gaol was sure to be a grim place, and even if the days still tended toward warm sunshine, autumn storms would be just as likely. The gaol was but a mile from the sea, and the damp would invade her bones before long.

Her fingers brushed against the pirate's gold as she drew out her stockings, and for a moment, she wondered how different her life would be if she had accepted his offer. Perhaps he'd been captured himself and met the same fate that awaited her.

Perhaps not.

But it didn't matter, did it? She hadn't gone. If she had, who knew what might have become of the lives she'd saved in the last several months, the new lives she'd ushered into the world. If she _had_ taken up with the pirate, if she had selfishly set sail for waters unknown and a life amongst dangerous men, perhaps those lives would have been snuffed out.

Still, it seemed tremendously unfair that the payment for her services was to be the hangman – and all because she'd had the nerve to tell a wealthy, powerful man _no._

"I'm ready," she said with as much dignity as she could muster when she reappeared before the magistrate, wincing as another came forward with heavy manacles. The iron chafed her skin at once, the metal cold and brutal as she was loaded onto a cart and chained again.

The wind rose as they began to move. Emma breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the freshly tilled earth and the faint scent of damp leaves that already clung to the air, the scent of summer taking its final bow. The rustling of the corn accompanied her most of the way, the stalks high and waving a melancholy farewell, as though they, too, knew Emma would never travel the village road again.

It was only once she'd been deposited in a cell with several other women that she gave into the terror that had seized her heart, the image of Gallows Hill stamped firmly on her mind, and wept.

-x-

Before the week was out, there were nine hangings. But by far, the worst of it was the slow, agonizing death of Giles Cory, who took two days to die under the weight of a pile of stones – all for refusing to enter a plea.

Two days after the man was put out of his misery, eight more swung.

Emma slowly went mad. She had no trial date, no chance to face her accuser, while all around her more and more died. One had escaped the latest visit from the reaper by confessing, and the idea appealed more each day.

But she knew the stories from across the sea – witches were burned. Hanging was a poor way to go, but surely it had to be better than being given to the flames. And ever since the magistrate had knocked on her door, Emma had accepted she was going to die. Might as well make the final choice for herself.

"What business have ye with the widow Swan?"

Emma jerked herself out of her grim thoughts, her name echoing down the stone hall. The low murmur of voices continued, but they were too quiet to make out. The ringing of boots on stone, however, was unmistakable.

A high, narrow window provided the only illumination by night in the cells, and the moon had yet to rise. Emma flinched in the bright torchlight as a figure swept down the hall, leather rustling. "Now see here," the jailor called after the black-clad stranger with the oddly familiar gait, "the accused are to have no visitors by order of the…"

"The governor signed that letter, you bloody fool. I'll be having a word with the widow Swan, or you'll be traveling to Boston to explain yourself." Bright blue eyes shone below his hood, and Emma swore she must be imagining things.

"This is highly irregular. I don't see how…"

Metal scraped metal, the gleam of a sword catching the firelight as her savior pointed the weapon at the jailor. "I suggest you leave me to my business, mate."

"I am going to fetch the magistrate. I won't be held accountable for…"

The man waved him off, a tiny, sly smile giving Emma the most irrational hope he'd come for her. Her heart pounding, she fought to keep her posture meek, lest her hopes give a potential rescue attempt away.

But it wasn't until the jailor had stormed off that she knew for certain the pirate had come back for her. He set his torch into a notch on the wall before the footsteps had faded, pulling two thin pieces of metal from his sleeve. "Step back, love. I need the light," he whispered, kneeling before the lock to the cell. "We haven't much time."

Emma's eyes darted back and forth, her nerves rising as she took a step back. Her cell was empty save for herself, her former companions having all had their turn at the gallows. She only hoped no one in any of the other cells was awake enough to care what was occurring on this end of the prison. "Why?" she finally asked, the silence broken only by his low curse as the tumblers refused to give.

"Questions later, darling." He swore again, but then there was a click and the door swung open with a groan. "Quickly, now."

But it had been weeks, and she'd eaten only when they remembered to throw moldy bread into her cell. Emma stumbled as she reached the doorway, adrenaline spurring her forward despite her weakened muscles. He reached out to steady her, the heat of his body slamming into her as she shivered. "I don't even know your name. _Why_?"

"Killian Jones, at your service." He grinned, a cheeky, teasing thing that had no place in the gaol, but settled her in a manner no words could have. "As I said, love, questions later. I've a talent for forgery, but we'll be discovered before long."

"You'll get yourself hanged beside me."

"Not bloody likely. I've a talent for surviving." He flashed another of those broad grins, the torchlight catching the deep blue of his eyes. But then he reached for her, and despite her exhaustion, Emma hesitated. She wanted to live, but was she going from the pan to the fire?

"Lass, we haven't the time." He stepped closer, his lips inches from hers as his breath washed over her. "I won't take you against your will, but I'll need a decision quite quickly."

Emma nodded, not fighting as he bent to scoop her into his arms, hurrying to the opposite end of the hall. They met what should have been a locked door, but Killian slid it open with ease. A horse waited beyond.

He helped her up into the saddle, the world swaying beneath her. The air was crisp, the tang of the nearby sea a clean, hopeful scent after the bowels of the gaol. It would be a short ride down the hill to the harbor, and as Killian settled behind her and wrapped his cloak around them both, a very stupid part of her regretted their trip would be so short.

She wasn't convinced they would make it, either. The night he'd spent waiting out the storm and sleeping off the rum in her cottage came to mind – she'd rejected his offer then out of a sense of duty to the village. After several weeks left to rot in a cell, she was already beginning to question if she'd made the right choice. Sharing his saddle, his thighs pressed to hers, his chest snug against her back and his arm tight around her waist, Emma thought perhaps she had given up a lot more than she'd imagined. And if she were to meet her maker after a failed escape attempt, at least she would have known the strength and security of Killian Jones for a few precious moments before the end.

Yet much to her surprise, they reached the harbor without being challenged.

"Nearly there, love." He slid down from the saddle first, reaching up for her with a firm grip on her waist. The smirks and smiles she recalled had disappeared, naked concern taking their place. He swore, a low, vicious noise that pulled his jaw taunt. "Let's sail away, darling."

Emma hadn't fully realized his intentions until that moment. Perhaps it was exhaustion or delirium, but the rescue had been impossible enough. That he actually intended to put her on his ship and take her far, far away from Salem had never really occurred to her.

"Did you doubt my offer was sincere that night?" he asked, as if he could read her thoughts. He brought one hand to her cheek, brushing his thumb against her dirt-smeared skin. "I'd go to the end of the world for you, love."

"Why?"

"Because someone should." His voice carried the gruffness of a man who'd said more than he ought. He unclasped his cloak, settling the heavy material over her shoulders before giving her arms a brisk rub. The cloak was warm and smelled of him, sweat and leather and a storm on the horizon. "We have to go."

Emma nodded, following him to the small rowboat waiting on the beach. To anyone passing by, they would appear two lonely figures in the night, but they would be tracked to the harbor before long. She sloshed through the waves, hurried to take her place in the boat while Killian shoved them off into deeper water before climbing aboard himself.

Her fears didn't let up until the lights of the village had turned to specks at the harbor's edge. Despite the cool night, Killian's shirt clung to him, sweat glistening on his brow in the starlight. Yet he didn't pause in his relentless rowing, his shoulders smoothly turning with each powerful stroke of the oars.

She'd expected a ship black with the grin of death upon its bow, but the vessel looked quite a lot like many others in the Royal Navy's fleet, the mast rising high above the deck flying British colors. She watched in mute fascination as orders were called up in a hushed but firm voice, and they were slowly hoisted out of the water and to the deck.

It had to have been a dream. That was the only way she could wrap her mind around the man at her side, gently helping her onto the swaying deck even while barking orders at the crew. A flurry of activity erupted around them, ropes singing and sails unfurling as Killian Jones guided her across the deck and down a flight of stairs.

"You're the captain?" she asked, too stunned to be more polite. "You're a pirate _captain_?"

"Aye." He seemed almost sheepish about his answer, leaning against the far wall and being careful not to touch her. "I can return you to shore, if you prefer, though I'd recommend against it."

"Why did you come back for me? _How_ did you even know I had been arrested?" she asked instead of commenting further upon his rank. Really, it didn't matter, did it? He'd saved her. She wore his cloak, and though she might have been issuing an invitation she didn't intend, she sank down on his bed as the floor began to roll.

"Does a man need a reason for rescuing a lovely woman?" he asked, ignoring her second question.

"A pirate does," she replied without thinking, her exhaustion loosening her tongue. He flinched as though she'd slapped him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…."

"Aye, you did." He sighed, his palm clasping the back of his neck. "You did me a kindness, once. I'm a man of my word. You'd make a fine pirate, love, if you have a taste for this life. I can't promise it will always be easy, but you'll be free to make your own choices. We're to the colonies in Virginia before we set sail for a longer voyage, and you're welcome to remain behind."

Emma bit her lip, stifling the words that wanted to escape. She'd said no once before, and look where that had gotten her, but did she really belong on a pirate vessel? And Killian Jones, her savior, was a pirate captain. She knew the tales of ruthlessness that ruled the high seas, the marauding and murdering and pillaging that would follow a man like him about.

"How did you know?" she asked again, uncertain why it seemed to matter so much. It wouldn't change anything, but she still had to know.

He hesitated, twisting one of his many rings, a thin silver band inlaid with a floral motif. "A man travels far and wide enough, he begins to understand the nastier bits of life. You, Swan, you were a bright flame surrounded by darkness – and darkness always seeks to snuff out the light. I paid a lad in Town a rather exorbitant sum to pass along the names of the accused, and I prayed to all the gods I've encountered that it was a perfectly good waste of coin."

"I appreciate your regard for my safety and your assistance, Captain," she finally said, balling her hands beneath the cloak to keep from reaching for him and swallowing hard. That he'd been so concerned with her safety for so long, that he'd come back for her…the knowledge tapped on a door inside her heart she'd slammed shut a long time ago. She'd thrown that key away for a reason, and nothing good would come of fashioning a new one. Forcing her voice level, she continued, "However, I will plan to leave you in Virginia."

"As you wish, Swan." He smiled, a tight, shadowed expression that left his eyes empty. "I'll leave you to rest. We'll be sailing for open waters, and it will be several days if the weather holds before we arrive. You have the freedom of the ship, my lady. The crew will not trouble you. Goodnight."

He was gone before Emma could muster up an adequate response.

-x-

People had been making choices for Emma Swan her entire life. First the orphanage, then her husband, then the village, then the witch trials. Standing on the deck of the ship she'd come to learn was the _Jolly Roger_ , for the first time in her life, she knew what freedom tasted like.

The wind pushed her hair off her shoulders, the late evening breeze carrying the faintest hint of a crisp, cool night to come. Emma didn't care. Hair unbound, she stood at the deck for the better part of an hour, watching a stunning sunset and wondering just what she was going to do in the morning when they reached the Virginia colonies.

True to his word, the crew of Killian's ship had let her be. She hadn't known what she'd expected from a pirate ship, but the orderly crew and tidy quarters were far from it. Killian maintained order with a firm hand, and by his glowers and gruff orders, the man knew how to exert his will over others. But he remained gentle, almost reserved when it came to her. He spoke to her as an equal, and when she was foolish enough to ask after his travels and what he'd seen of the world, he told her freely.

And it could all be hers, if only she would reach out and take it.

The man himself appeared at her side, elbows folded against the railing. The day had been warm, and his shirt was open to reveal the dark hair scattered across his tanned chest, his sleeves shoved to his elbows. "Evening, Swan," he said softly, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, but not close enough to touch. "Fine sunset."

"It's amazing. I've never seen anything so beautiful," she confessed, her eyes lingering on the pale pinks streaking the western horizon. In the east, the inky night had already begun to creep across the sky, a lone star visible. The stars out at sea were perhaps even better than the sunsets. She'd seen Killian staring up at them the night before, and though she'd managed to keep herself from asking, she had wanted quite desperately to have the time for him to teach her the night sky.

"Aye, stunning."

Emma's cheeks warmed, knowing without looking that his gaze was directed at her, not the sky. She didn't reply, not knowing what to say, and they fell into an easy silence, surrounded by the slap of the waves on the hull and low murmur of the crew winding down for the day. They'd be dropping anchor soon, if she recalled Killian's plans correctly. He intended to wait out the night out of sight of the harbor in order to time their arrival with the morning's tide.

"Don't go," he finally said, his voice gruff as his hand slid across the rail and grasped hers. "I came back for you, Emma Swan, because I'm a selfish man. It's true I couldn't stomach the thought of you facing the hangman over something as preposterous as witchcraft, but I'd also hoped…" He stopped, releasing her hand and jerking back. "I apologize, love."

"You'd hoped what?"

He smiled, that sad, tight smile that had unsettled her the night he'd brought her aboard. "You've made your decision. It's not my place."

"Tell me anyway."

He laughed, this time a genuine laugh, the deep rumble of it shivering down her spine and settling at her core. "You're quite demanding. Good quality in a pirate, you know."

"Tell me."

"I'd hoped, quite selfishly, that the events in Salem would have caused you to realize they did not deserve you – that you would reconsider my earlier offer and take to the seas with me. I'm quite taken with you, you see. Have been since the moment you stitched me up, treated me as more of a man than a pirate." It had grown darker as they'd stood at the rail, night stealing more and more of the sky for itself. One of the crew had begun to light the lanterns hanging about the deck, but Killian's face was still cast in shadow. "Perhaps you truly are a witch, but even if you are, I don't give a damn. Stay."

His expression was still unmistakable, naked hope and something else, something soft and gentle and fierce all at once hidden in the sweep of his gaze over her. Emma reached for his hand, flipping his palm over to trace the thin scar that remained from her handiwork. The tingle of magic greeted her, a pleasant warmth flooding through her as she ran the tip of her finger over the scar.

"If…if I were to stay," she began, surprised by the thickness of her tongue and the overwhelming emotion his confession had brought on. "What would I do on board a pirate ship?"

Killian took a step closer, his boots nearly touching hers. "Live, darling. Not exist, but _live_." He bent closer, humor sparking in his eyes again as the newly lit lantern cast a warm glow over his skin. "And maybe, if I'm quite lucky, love."

She'd made her decision before his lips brushed hers, and pressed herself close as his embrace enveloped her. He tasted of rum, sweet and spicy, and she surrendered herself to it – to the pirate captain, to the sea, to the wind, to _life._


End file.
